


When Mary Left

by janto321 (FaceofMer)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Getting Back Together, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-09
Updated: 2016-11-09
Packaged: 2018-08-30 01:35:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8513653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/pseuds/janto321
Summary: John that it was what he was supposed to want. Sherlock thought it was what John wanted. Mary rolled her eyes and took herself away.





	

_It was better this way, wasn’t it?_

Sherlock watched John with Mary, knowing that he’d surrendered any claim the moment he’d left the roof. The wedding planning proceeded apace. And John was happy, wasn’t he?

_Did it all mean nothing?_

John watched Sherlock, watched him throw himself into the wedding planning. Saw cases and clients slide by with never a call. Sherlock didn’t need him. Had he ever?

_These two idiots._

Mary saw Sherlock. She saw John. She knew John was going ahead with the wedding because he thought it was what he wanted. She knew Sherlock was going ahead because he thought it was what John wanted. She wanted John Watson for herself, but knew that even if there was a ring on her finger, that he would never truly be hers.

So she took herself out of the equation, vanishing much like she had appeared.

**

John hesitated, then knocked on the door before stepping into Baker Street. “Have you seen Mary?”

Sherlock looked up from folding wedding invitations and frowned. “Not since last night, no.”

John looked at the gulf between them, and stayed in the doorway. “She’s gone.”

Sherlock’s frown deepened and he unfolded himself from his seat on the floor. “We can find her, John.”

John gave a short laugh, touched with bitterness. “No. If Mary doesn’t want to be found, she can disappear as well as a detective.”

Sherlock winced, knowing the truth of John’s words. In all his calculations, the one thing he had not considered was how much his ‘death’ would wound John. How nearly fatal that blow had been.

Swallowing, Sherlock stepped back towards the kitchen. 

John hesitated again, then moved deeper into the flat. He bent down and picked up the pile of invitations, tossing them into the fireplace.

Sherlock could see the barely suppressed tremble of rage and hurt. He wasn’t a doctor, he didn’t have friends. He had no idea how to fix this, if he even could.

John stood on the carpet, still in his jacket, the other detritus from the wedding planning on the table. Taking a step forward, he swept it to the floor.

Sherlock fixed tea in John’s favorite mug and stepped back out, offering it to him like an olive branch.

John looked at the mug, looked up at Sherlock, and then turned and walked out.

Sherlock watched him go, carefully setting the mug down. He pulled out his phone, uncertain, and sent a message.

**

“Got it,” said Greg, hanging up the phone and putting it back in his pocket. He drove to the pub in question and parked. John was slouched in a corner, alone, two empties in front of him and nursing a third.

Without speaking, Greg walked over and sat next to him.

John looked up, and then went back to nursing his drink.

Greg got his own pint and stayed right there, nursing his, half watching the telly and half watching John.

When John finished his pint, Greg gently touched his elbow and gestured at the door.

John grumbled a bit, but got up and followed him, resuming his slouch in the front seat of Greg’s car.

He was clearly surprised when they pulled up a small block of flats. Greg gave him a smile and led him upstairs, unlocking the door. His flat was small, but tidy, helped by the fact that he wasn’t there all that often. He gestured at the sofa and John made his way over, slightly unsteady. Greg got out a spare pillow and blanket, turning out the lights once he was certain John was settled in to sleep.

**

Greg woke to a noise from his living room. He got up and found John sitting, arms wrapped around his knees, trying to slow his breathing. 

Quietly, Greg sat at the other end of the sofa, watching John in the dark. 

“It hurts,” said John, quietly, as if the dark could shield him. 

“I know,” said Greg. 

“I don't know if she ever really loved me.”

Greg thought about his ex, and all that had happened between them. “I understand.”

John looked at him. “You do, don't you.”

It wasn't a question but Greg nodded. Outside, dawn began to brighten London’s skies. 

John took a deep breath. “I need to go to Baker Street.”

“You can stay here long as you like,” offered Greg. 

John shook his head. 

Greg patted his foot through the blankets and got up to make breakfast. 

He heard the door open a minute later and picked up his mobile. “He's on his way back.”

“Thank you,” said Mycroft before the line went dead. 

“Would have done it anyway,” said Greg to the silence.

**

John walked up the stairs with more confidence then he felt, stopping on the landing as he caught the strains of Sherlock’s violin. John didn't recognize it, but it was a waltz. Taking a breath, he continued up the stairs and pushed open the door. 

Sherlock had his back to him, robe hanging from shoulders that were still too slender. John could see he hadn't slept, hair wild and unkempt. 

The song scratched to a halt as Sherlock realized he had an audience. He turned, looking at John with vulnerable uncertainty. 

John noticed that any signs of the wedding planning were gone, or at least out of sight. He searched Sherlock’s eyes. “Did it mean anything to you?”

Of all the questions that John could have asked, that was least expected. “What…?”

“You and I, Sherlock. Did I ever mean anything to you? Was I just a distraction? A skull on a mantel? A pawn you could simply sacrifice?”

Sherlock shook his head. “You are everything.”

John’s heart stopped for a frozen moment. Then as it beat again he crossed the space between them, fisting the front of Sherlock's shirt, yanking him down for a kiss. 

Sherlock gave a strangled noise, wrapping his arms around John. 

John let the kiss continue for a long moment before breaking it and looking into his eyes. “Put your violin down.”

Sherlock was loath to move, but as in everything, John was right. He turned and gently lay the instrument on it’s stand before turning back.

John reached up and cupped Sherlock’s cheek, drawing him down into another kiss.

Sherlock moaned, knees nearly buckling.

Smiling against his kiss, John caught his movement. He pulled away again, even as Sherlock chased his lips.

Silently, John took Sherlock’s hand and led him down the hall.

Sherlock’s heart beat fast, uncertain, feeling that he had everything in the warm palm pressed against his own, and so afraid it would slip from his grasp all over again.

John lay him down in the bed and crawled in after him. To Sherlock’s surprise, John simply curled up against his side, resting his head against his chest as if listening to his heartbeat.

“You didn’t sleep last night,” said John to his unspoken question. “And I didn’t sleep much better. Rest, Sherlock. We… we have time.”

Sherlock reached up and ran fingers through John’s hair. “Yes. Now we do.”

**Author's Note:**

> I thought about adding smut at the end, but I think I like where it landed.


End file.
